How did this even manage to happen? St-Pierre had no interest in guys, and even if he did, there was no way he’d like Nick Diaz out of all the people he could’ve and would’ve chosen. The guy was dirty, a thug, too brash, and too mean. He was the opposite of everything George was. He was clean, respectful, and charming: everything that the Stockton man wanted to be but couldn’t. But life had a knack for turning things the way Georges didn’t expect.

St-Pierre eventually understood why Diaz hated him and why he had such a ‘vendetta’ against him. He would’ve hated himself too if he were in his shoes. Who wouldn’t? He was “privileged” in a sense from the start, lived in better conditions than Diaz did, and didn’t have to worry about food or being killed in broad daylight. All he faced was bullying, which didn’t compare to what Nick went through. None of it compared to the fact that Diaz watched people that he cared for—his friends, his former lover—lose their lives in front of his very eyes. Death was something Diaz was very familiar with, and Georges couldn’t imagine the severity of the pain he faced.

So why and how exactly was he here?

George took a moment to think about it. He doesn’t remember exactly how it started, but he recalled how Nick asked him if he had any marijuana on him. Of course—he didn’t. But something with how infuriated and disappointed Diaz looked when he told him flipped a switch in his heart.

He found himself handing Nick a small baggie that contained only 2 buds the day after. He recalled the situation vividly. ‘Where’d you get this?’ ‘Only two?’ ‘I guess it’s fine.’

Just fine? St-Pierre couldn’t stand for that, for some reason. As soon as Nick approached him the next day and told him that he actually liked the marijuana he got him—albeit begrudgingly—St-Pierre knew he had to do something to change that statement of just ‘fine’.

He just kept giving, eventually forming a sort of acquaintance with Diaz—perhaps even more than that—and soon enough Diaz felt like he trusted Georges enough to allow him inside his house when he chose to come over and visit. He stood at the door of Diaz’s house, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket as the chill from the Stockton winter seeped deeper into his being. Georges shouldn’t be here; he knew this. Diaz tolerated his guts at most, waiting for Georges to mess up to give him a reason that’s not related to weed to kick him out. That’s what he always told himself—perhaps out of denial and a feeble attempt to convince that one stubborn part in his mind—but he finds himself in the same spot on the same day weekly.

Georges hesitated this time. Something in him finally clicked. He’d usually knock almost immediately as soon as he got to the door, and Diaz would answer after 5 minutes. Like clockwork, almost.

But it’s the first time in a long time that his brain asked himself: Why was he doing this? For what reason? What was the goal?

Georges stood there like a statue for a few moments, hands still stuffed into his pockets, and one fisted around a small baggie. Before he even had the time to think about the questions that he already knew the answer to, the door swung open, and there, in a black tank top and shorts with his hair slightly tousled, stood Nick Diaz.

“Nick,” Georges greeted almost too quietly, the name feeling heavy and almost bitter on his tongue now. “Hey.”

Diaz raised an eyebrow at St-Pierre. This wasn’t how he acted, usually. “You’re here,” he murmured, as if surprised to see Georges standing there. A small and awkward smirk formed on his lips to lessen the tension. “You, uh, brought the stuff, right?”

St-Pierre nodded his head stiffly, offering his arm so Diaz could drag him inside like always. Nick didn’t refuse, taking Georges’s arm and tugging him into his home—which is, in a charming way, still his own even if it was just a tiny bit messy—and leaving him at the foot of his living room, “Sorry I, uh, didn't have time to clean up,” He glanced behind him at Georges, eyeing his shoes. “Take off your shoes; I don’t need you trackin’ mud in here.”

He kicked off his shoes after rubbing away the bit of mud and dirt on the doormat, placing them haphazardly next to Diaz’s before he approached Nick and handed him the small baggie. “Like usual,” muttered St-Pierre, “I managed to get a little more since you like it so much.”

Nick smirked as he took the baggie from Georges, tearing it open and observing the contents. “1, 2, 3...” He paused and laughed quietly, his voice laced with amusement and silent gratitude. “Damn, George, you got me 7 buds, huh?”

He glanced back at Georges as he made his way back to his couch. “You love me or somethin’?”

Yes, St-Pierre almost said. His jaw clenched when he heard the question tumble out of Diaz’s lips—uncoordinated, delayed, and barely coherent—he was high as shit; he couldn’t entertain him when Diaz was as high as he is now. He shook his head, forcing an amused smile as he responded, “You would whine if I brought less.”

Nick went quiet and observed Georges, but his weed-muddled brain couldn’t figure out what in the world was off with the Canadian before he shrugged and mumbled under his breath: “You right.”

He sat on the couch, his body immediately sinking into the cushion as he patted the empty spot beside him, “Sit, dude, c’mon.”

Diaz’s eyes lingered on him with that stupid lopsided smirk on his face, and it almost made St-Pierre squirm. He sighed and nodded his head, soon settling beside Diaz, their thighs almost coming into contact as the cushions shifted under their combined weight. His eyes stayed on Diaz for a little too long, observing how he took out one of the dried weed buds, ground it, filled the paper with it, rolled it, sealed it, and then smoked it. It was a routine St-Pierre was familiar with and unwillingly memorized. It made him realize just how often he came and visited Diaz, and it made the complicated feelings in his heart even more complex.

The Stockton man reached over and snatched his Bic lighter off the coffee table, joint wedged between his lips, and held the tip of the joint over the lighter, flicking it a few times as small sparks flew, but no flame was ignited. “Damn it,” he huffed, attempting to light his joint a few times before he let out a sigh of frustration, “...Out of fuel,” he growled, glancing over at Georges with his bloodshot eyes.

St-Pierre didn’t need to say anything, sighing and rolling his eyes with no heat to it as he dug through the pockets of his jeans and took out a spare and almost untouched Bic lighter. He watched as Nick’s face lit up and snickered, snatching the lighter from the palm of his hand while muttering a quiet ‘thanks’ before lighting the joint. He took a slow and steady inhale, his body visibly relaxing as he exhaled, the smoke exiting from his lips and twirling around them before disappearing into the atmosphere like an afterthought.

“You’ve been acting weird,” Nick said matter-of-factly as he glanced at Georges. “What’s up with you, huh?”

St-Pierre tensed and stayed quiet. He could feel Nick’s eyes on him, burning into the side of his head and straight into his head—into his mind—like he could read him like a book. But he knew he couldn’t, not with how high off his rocker he was. “I'm good, man,” he answered simply, glancing at Nick with a feigned curious expression. “Why do you ask?”

Nick eyed him skeptically, his gaze running up and over his face before he shrugged his shoulders and let out another puff, the smoke accidentally drifting over to Georges, who fanned it away from his face. “I don’t know,” he murmured, his head lolling to the side to face Georges. “You’ve just been actin’ strange. Sappy and whatever, I guess. Like you care.”

Do you think I don’t care? “What makes you think that?” St-Pierre hummed, trying desperately to ignore how fast his heart was racing. Diaz looked so beautiful like this, blissed out of his mind and not caring what exactly comes out of his mouth, nor does he care about anything in general. He leaned forward slightly, eyes unwillingly locked with Diaz’s despite his urge to pry them away.

“Uh, I don’t know, man,” mumbled Nick as his body turned to fully face Georges on the couch. “You’ve just been acting weird, ok? You come over often, you clean up my shit sometimes when I’m too high to care, and when I’m sober, I feel all weird and guilty about it.” Nick shifted slightly, his body almost folding in on itself as he relaxed back into the couch. “Sometimes I think you’re doin’ all that just to hold it over my head one day, y’know? But you wouldn’t do that, right?”

I would kill myself if I ever did that to you, much less consider it. “Of course not,” he answered, his voice a soft murmur. His eyes finally left Diaz’s after a few seconds had passed, his gaze drifting towards the few strands of his curls that hovered over his forehead messily. He had to restrain himself from reaching out to push them out of the way. St-Pierre glanced back at Diaz, taking in his soft and almost doubtful expression. “You don’t believe me, do you?

“Well—” Nick huffed suddenly, breaking eye contact as he glanced away. He hated being put on the spot like this. “Can you really blame me? You, like… You came in here so suddenly, you know? It kinda made me think you wanted somethin’ for all this, like you were gonna reap your sow or some shit.”

St-Pierre let out a feigned hurt expression, a hand placed against his chest. “You really think that low of me?”

“Fuck you,” scoffed Nick as he sat up, letting out another puff towards Georges’s direction just to watch his eyes widen and fan the smoke away as he coughed. A smirk grew on Nick’s lips, and a soft, mischievous snicker left them as Georges glared at him playfully.

“You are so childish,” St-Pierre groaned lightheartedly, reaching out and poking his chest, which elicited a soft grunt from Diaz, who glanced back at him.

“Hey, dude,” said Nick, capturing Georges’s attention once more. His brain was still high, that much was certain, but Nick wasn’t stupid either. “You like me, right?”

St-Pierre could've sworn his heart stopped for at least 5 seconds.

“Like?” St-Pierre raised an eyebrow as his expression feigned the emotions of amusement and confusion. “You mean as a friend, right? Yeah, of course, man.” St-Pierre thought he hid it so well that Diaz wouldn't notice. His heart was pounding so hard it could break through his ribs, tear out of his chest and fly directly into Diaz’s hands. That's how much leverage the Stockton man had on him; St-Pierre was whipped for Diaz.

“Nah,” Nick huffed, reaching out to snuff the joint by pressing it into the ashtray on the coffee table. “I mean, like. Like like, y’know?”

“Well—”

“Damn it, George, do you want me or not?”

St-Pierre couldn't avoid the question or word it differently. The question Nick was asking was clear as day about what he wanted to know. He felt his throat tighten, and his palms started to feel moist and slick.

Nick observed Georges, the fact that the Canadian was fidgeting, averting and avoiding his gaze, and refusing to speak about it seemed to confirm his suspicions. A small smirk—genuine and amused—grew on his lips as he leaned forward, palms digging into the cushion of the couch. “Look at me, George.”

St-Pierre couldn't. He wouldn't even dare to look at Nick when he's looking at him like he has him all figured out—because he doesn't—his feelings are too complicated, too complex. Nick wouldn't understand, he'd find it disgusting…

Georges’s closed eyes shot open when he felt the tips of Nick's fingers graze against the side of his jaw, his head flinching back like he'd been burnt.

“George?” Nick pulled back almost immediately, confidence and amusement being replaced by doubt. “Shit, did I—? Fuck, did I misread this whole thing?”

No, no. Georges shook his head too quickly out of panic, his hand shooting out to grab Nick's wrist and press his hand against his cheek like he had meant to do. Diaz’s palm was cold, and Georges had his hand over it while having it against his face.

Nick saw a part of Georges he had never seen before. The legendary fighter, his opponent, and his rival that he was familiar with—that was gone. All that was left in front of him now was someone very vulnerable and open, like a fresh wound: one wrong move and it'd hurt, and everything would go wrong. “George,” he whispered, his thumb slowly rubbing his cheek. “...How long, huh? How long have you been keeping this from me?”

His voice was so gentle, so understanding. It was the opposite of what St-Pierre expected from him. He expected rejection, envy, and even disgust—anything but this. A strange sense of acceptance and embarrassment swelled in his heart as Georges finally gathered the courage to glance at Nick, his eyes shy and his face strangely tinted pink. “2 years,” responded St-Pierre, his voice uncharacteristically weak and low.

“I figured,” whispered Diaz as he took away his hand, noticing how Georges’s hand squeezed just lightly before relaxing reluctantly. His smirk returned to his lips soon after and he let out a soft sigh. “You're shit at hiding it, man.”

St-Pierre let out a choked noise and his eyes widened as he asked: “I am?”

“So shit dude,” Nick let out a bark of laughter, not missing how his cheeks felt warm, then hot—hotter than anything he had ever felt before—rubbing his face with a hand. “You uh, looked at me like you wanted to marry me each time we met. It was so obvious, even Nate noticed it.” He gazed at Georges in a new light, his eyes full of affection—that he knew would be reciprocated now—as he reached over and poked at his chest in retaliation. “You know how bad that is? Nate is stupid as hell. You have to be horrible at hiding it if he managed to catch on.”

“...Damn,” Georges muttered as he ran both hands over his face, his lips letting out a flustered noise. “So you knew this whole time?”

“Uh, I guess,” shrugged Diaz. Now that he has thought about it, he did know the entire time he and Georges were talking. Hell, Nate was the one to bring it to his attention. Which… says a lot since he didn't catch any of Georges’s advances until Nate pointed it out to him. “Nate was the one who told me.”

“...You just said Nate was dumb and that I was bad at hiding it if he could catch it,” George said blankly. “How did you not catch it?”

Nick paused, his still weed-muddled brain catching up before he let out a scoff when he realized his slip-up. “Shut up, man. I'm still kinda high.”

Silence came over both of them for a few excruciatingly long seconds before Diaz spoke up once more. “You want to, uh, I don't know… be my boyfriend?” He gritted out like the sentence pained him to say it, but it was because the sentence itself was awkward as hell, not that Nick didn't want to say it.

“Yes—” George almost yelled when he heard the question, having to bite down on his lower lip to silence himself considering it was in the middle of the night. “Yeah, yes. I want to be your boyfriend.”

“...You're such a weirdo, GSP,” huffed Diaz as he leaned forward and planted a light kiss on his cheek, which made both men freeze as soon as Nick's lips came into contact with the Canadian's skin.

Nick flinched back and his cheeks—no, his entire body—burned like hell itself was forming in his being, and Georges wasn't any better as he was red as a tomato. “...This is so fucking gay.”

“Yeah. Because we are.”